Redshift debriefed
NCC Medical Ward Like its previous incarnation, this medical ward was designed with the medic in mind, with all the modern advances to make the dirty work of repairs a world easier. It is well lit, the blue and violet metal of the walls and decor is a shade paler here, and the ubiquitous filigree is missing, all to assist in ease of cleaning. Still, the place veritably sparkles. In the furniture, there is a subtle motif of blades and sharp edges, as if to evoke the scalpel of a surgeon, although it is all quite safe. Around two dozen beds, more comfortable than their sharp looks would suggest, fill the medical ward, laid out in a tidy grid, and more can be flipped out of the walls should emergency demand it. A set of tracks on the ceiling mirror the grid of beds, allowing advanced scanning equipment and tolls to be swiveled around to the various beds. Computer terminals and cabinets are molded right into the walls at intervals, and while there are the normal medical security cameras, it appears as if someone has set some of the cameras specifically to watch the cabinets. Redshift is sitting on a medical table, while spidery mechanical limbs roam over his increasingly painted frame. Sprayers apply layer after layer of glossy red paint, along with black enamels and gold accents. There's little Redshift likes more than being preened, and it /has/ been a long time since his frame received proper maintenance. With wingblades swishing about her knee intakes, Fusillade sashays into the medical ward, head swiveling this way and that like a mockingbird searching for unsuspecting cats to abuse. Cruising past the tables, elemental backscatter detectors, and rack mounted medical equipment, she trounces toward the body and paint shop, expression spreading from a grin to an outright leer once she locks onto Redshift's unfortunate form. She plonks down a tremendous bottle of lacquer. "Welcome back!" Redshift's optics light up at the sight of the towering Fusillade, a genuine smile tugging at the ends of his mouth. It looks like he hasn't had much reason to smile lately, given the circumstances. "Good to see you again, Fusillade. I hope you weren't too lonely without me." He says, with a hint of mirth. His eyes glance at the bottle of premium lacquer hungrily, "The finest, I presume? I haven't had a good finish in a long time." "Thrust has made an acceptable punching bag, he's even red," Fusillade purrs out in silken menace as she plunks the canister on the loading tray by the drone. "Should be enough for about 10 layers. So what'd these freaks do to you?" she queries as she leans against a monitor-lined wall, crossing ankles. "He's red, but he lacks... Panache, style. Flair! and he has a cone for a head, tch." Redshift replies smoothly. Nevermind that Catechism has one too. Redshift pats the hefty bottle of lacquer, and looks up to Fusillade, his tentative smile failing as he thinks about his captivity. "Well, being stuck in a small, dark box with Blueshift for weeks on end, for starters. Listening to the gasbags denounce our race as being a stain on the universe's underpants for another. Beatings, lack of Energon, and no maintenance... I let Blueshift fix me once, when I had no choice to refuse. It wasn't pretty." "So uh... how's d they beat you if they were made outta gas?" Fusillade gets distracted. "Ramjet's back to stirring the pot again, so there will be plenty for you to do, command or no," she smirks. "I noticed Ramjet's meddling cone fairly soon after my return yes." Redshift replies, mood darkening a bit further. "The gas aliens have shown a knack for possessing and controlling machines. The prison was patrolled by floating drone things that apparently each contained a Nebuloid alien. Surprisingly enough, they were able to take control of myself and Blueshift as well, and used US to try and take everyone else prisoner. Didn't work very well, though." "Oh ho no wonder you're still here and Ramjet's calling for a hunt on you, hahaaha! That's rich," Fusillade guffaws boisterously. "Oh yeah, I'm about to go FTL, too. FINALLY." "So yeah, it looked like me and Blueshift were staging a coup or something, what with Blueshift trying to kill Galvatron. But Galvatron squeezed the alien out of Blueshift before they got blasted into space. It was a weird experience, and I think the gas aliens really... Enjoyed using our bodies. I could watch, but I couldn't /do/ anything. I'm glad the pompous gasbag didn't get me /killed/... I think Snapdragon was about to have me for lunch." Fusillade winces at the idea. "Sounds like a night on the town with Soundwave, ech." A timer starts beeping, and she perks up, "Oh hey time to go soften up an EDC ground radar emplacement in Eritrea!" She clatters out of the room as abruptly as she arrived. Redshift waves weakly at Fusillade's exit, his faint smile returning despite the gloomy conversation. Pity Fusillade's welcome basket didn't have a nice drop of premium Energon, but maybe he can hit up Catechism for some. "Hit 'em hard, Fusillade. Let me know if you need a few fire-bombs while you're at it." Redshift can switch-hit as a bomber now.